


The Measure of Trust

by TerresDeBrume



Series: Get Back Up [12]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Babies, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, First Time, Gen, M/M, Present Tense, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Muhammad Munroe,” Charles gasps when he comes out of the machine one hour later, legs trembling and forehead covered in sweat, a serious crease etched between his eyebrows.<br/>“You sure?” Hank says, looking at the coordinates on his sheet of paper with a dubious expression on his face, “He lives in the middle of the Egyptian desert, I’m not sure he’ll be able to….”</i></p><p><i>But Charles is tripping out of Cerebro[...].</i></p><p><i>"I'll go visit this man."</i></p><p>Charles makes a trip to Egypt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Measure of Trust

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place about three months after _Today We Tell the World_.

“What an adorable lab-rat you make, Charles,” Erik smiles as Charles settles Cerebro’s glowing helmet on his head.

“Don’t spoil this for me,” he says, half amused, “and don’t speak. You know I’m looking for more than coordinates today, the less distraction the better.”

“We need to find people who can help us,” Alex says, probably more to himself than for Erik’s benefit, “Mutants whose wealth is sufficient for them to help funding kids’ ‘holidays’.”

“And give me tons of paperwork to fill,” Erik adds, not as grimly as he’d like –it is difficult to loathe the paperwork in question when he knows it is as important to their cause as it is boring to him.

“Don’t worry,” Hank says, “we all have our share of that.”

 

Erik knows that as well: he has seen the endless piles of files Alex, Charles and Hank gather to tackle down each Tuesday night, trying to make the painful ache –in their eyes, their skulls, their backs- a little more bearable with beer –coke for Hank, who’s still only dealing with registers of the result of his experiments or their trio’s advancement- and company. Erik has already helped Sean, Darwin, Raven and Moira to whisk them away from it more than once, when they became so involved in their respective task that Tuesday night became Wednesday morning and then after-work Wednesday night.

He understands them a little better now, understands how the soreness of his ass isn’t nearly enough to override the knowledge that with each signature he is taking Mutants closer to a world where they’re safe and free.

 

He’s still grateful when Charles friends – _they’re yours too, now_ \- force them to eat something and get some rest, still grateful for the way they’ll all pile on Alex and Sean’s sofa once they’re done with the papers to have a –very- late meal and fall asleep in front of whatever movie Sean fancies at the time, or just listen to Charles’ collection of French variety songs until they can’t get the lyrics out anymore and hum each others to sleep, their minds buzzing and their limbs numb from an uninteresting but deeply necessary evening.

And of course, he’s even more grateful for the weeks when they don’t have quite that much work and the paperwork date turns into diner in Charles and Raven’s garden or Sean and Alex’s dining room or Darwin’s former warehouse of a loft, those night where Moira joins them and impresses Darwin with how much mayhem actually goes on in Police schools, Scott makes them all draw on the newly changed duct tape around his eyes and Raven threatens Hank with braiding his fur if he doesn’t stop calling Charles ‘sir’. Those nights feel like family gathering, and Erik is coming to cherish that, cherish the fact that he met them all before he was engrossed in his anger and hate beyond repair, even when Moira shoots a pinning look at Charles, or Charles and Alex get _that_ look that allows nobody else in, not even Erik or Sean –they’re slowly but surely sympathizing over that- even when there’s nothing even remotely sexual in it.

 

“Besides,” Alex adds, stirring Erik from his thoughts, “it’s not like we really have another solution. It would be suspicious for Charles to set up the trust at the same time as he starts building his hotel, and I can’t even deal with the Pride Committee without Darwin’s help anymore, so you’re kind of our best solution.”

“Especially considering the fact my name _hasn’t_ made the headlines yet, and they won’t automatically dismiss my application due to my visible involvement in our cause.”

“That, and Brett wouldn’t have agreed to support something made in _my_ name, anyways,” Charles approves.

“Doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Hank comments, feet pulling levers while his hands are busy activating buttons. “Ready when you are, sir.”

 

Charles rolls his eyes –even though Erik knows he appreciates the formal address- and closes his eyelids to slide in that special place only he can access, the one where all the minds of the world meet as one.

 

 **oooooooooooo**

 

“Muhammad Munroe,” Charles gasps when he comes out of the machine one hour later, legs trembling and forehead covered in sweat, a serious crease etched between his eyebrows.

“You sure?” Hank says, looking at the coordinates on his sheet of paper with a dubious expression on his face, “He lives in the middle of the Egyptian desert, I’m not sure he’ll be able to….”

 

But Charles is tripping out of Cerebro, Erik barely catching him in time to avoid a rather nasty encounter with the floor, and his eyes are unfocused –or rather, Erik corrects, focused on something he is the only one to see, though whether it is Africa or his past, that remains to be seen.

What happens after that is forever blurry in Erik’s memory: he sees images of an old man, skinny and muscled under his worn out shirt and flannel trousers, scars running along his arms and across his face –eyebrow to jaw. The old man is in a single roomed hut-like construction and hums as he stirs something, a baby burbling somewhere in the background. Next comes an impression of what Erik guesses is a newborn Raven, blue skin clashing with the soft pink of her linen, the smile of a man who looks like he’ll die soon, lots of blood, loneliness, longing, fierce protectiveness and love love love, resonating like an oath.

Then Charles remembers he is not alone and the images are gone like a water tap is shut, and he straightens forcibly before he says:

 

“I’ll go visit this man.”

 

Not he and Erik, not he and Alex, not even he and Raven –which would make sense, since he is aiming to provide not only a school but a home and a family to his future students- but himself alone. Neither Erik nor the two other dare question him when they see the look of solemn determination on his face.

 

 **oooooooooooo**

 

Charles phones Erik when he reaches Cairo.

He asks about Raven, whether she’s behaving properly at school –because yes, it’s been three months since the Parade, it’s October now, and Charles simply decided his coursework wasn’t as important as whatever it is he’s tracking in Egypt- whether Raven’s doing all right –the answer’s yes: Hank’s parents are spoiling her rotten, which isn’t that big a change no matter Charles’ protests of the contrary, and she and Hank spend most of their free time showing Azazel around town and trying to help him find a job, which isn’t an easy feat for someone who is obviously a Mutant, obviously foreign, and has a scar across the face. Still, the three of them are good friends, even though Azazel is technically closer to Charles’ age than theirs, but Erik supposes he welcome the fresh air and the lack of concern… that, and Raven’s own particular brand of dry humor.

 

Charles’ voice softens when he asks about Erik personally, about the menial details of his days, what book is he reading, are his students as terrified of him as ever?

 

“More so,” Erik answers truthfully. “Apparently, they think I’m going to lose my wits and beat them with a screwdriver.”

“Which you won’t be doing, of course.”

“Not that the idea isn’t tempting,” Erik jokes, but stops short when Charles draws a sharp breath on the other end of the ocean. Oh. “Charles….”

“Sorry, sorry,” Charles says, audibly trying to regulate his breathing, “I’m sorry, I don’t really think you –I don’t normally react like that, it’s just that –people here care so _little_ and hearing them think about it, it just –that’s a belt buckle, you know… on my arm.”

 

Erik instantly remembers the fourth of August and the two neat, parallel scars sticking out from under Charles’ right sleeve. He’s never doubted there was a long story behind those scars and, if he’s honest with himself, he’s not really surprised that it is _this_ kind of story… there are signs he can’t miss, after all. Still, discussing it doesn’t figure on the list of things he finds easy to do.

 

“I… Dad –I mean, Raven’s father- he died when I was eight. Raven… she never had a chance to know him, and I –I thought we’d be happy, you know. The three of us, Raven, Dad and I. But then he died, of cancer, and Mother… mother never quite recovered from it. She never quite recovered from a lot of things, to be honest. Ever since my father died she….” Charles trails off and takes a deep breath somewhere on the other side of the ocean, and Erik knows he would have taken him in his arms if he could.

“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss this over the phone,” he says instead.

“But I need to tell you, and I don’t think I’ll be able to talk about it when we’re face to face,” Charles apologizes quietly. Erik thinks this conversation was easier for him: he just had to let Charles look at what happened to him and his mother. “It started when I was twelve,” Charles whispers, and Erik is certain the telepath thinks he can’t hear the tears in his voice, “Raven… I don’t think Raven knows. She was already in pension by then and he… we had an agreement.”

“An _agreement_? You had an _agreement_ with a man who used to _beat you up_?” Erik exclaims, disbelieving, and he doesn’t need to see Charles to know his features are harsh when he answers:

“I did what I had to.”

“By negotiating with your _torturer_?” Erik thinks he would never have negotiated with Shaw, not ever.

“You didn’t have any sibling to protect!” Charles cuts angrily, and Erik’s breath is knocked right out of his lungs.

“I had a _mother_ ,” Erik bites, hurt and wanting to give as good as he gets, even if he knows they’re probably going to both regret their words before the conversation is over.

“Yes, a mother you didn’t have _any_ mean to protect! I did what it had to keep Raven safe, don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same!”

“There were other ways! You didn’t need to allow him to have his sick fun with you!”

“And what other option did I have? Tear his mind apart? Kill him? Don’t worry, I thought about it, very seriously, but you know what? Even at twelve I already knew it couldn’t work out, not while I was still underage and with nothing but a five years old sister to lean on! What would you have me do then? Leave? Leave and put Raven at the mercy of the social services? Force her into a life where she’d have to hide for her own safety? I didn’t even have enough control to leave the house safely! Besides,” Charles adds after a few ragged breaths, “I couldn’t leave my father’s estate behind.”

“No, of course, what’s your own safety in the front of a fortune so big!”

“He _loved_ me!” Charles all but screams into the phone, voice going hoarse, “don’t you get it? he _loved_ me, and he _died_ to protect me, he _died_ because he wanted to make sure that _God damned_ soldier wouldn’t _blow my head_ like he blew Angel’s, he _died_ because as terrified as he was of what I could do, he _never_ stopped protecting me, never stopped loving me, not even when Mother refused to just look me in the eyes! And Dad – _Dad_ loved me too! Dad knew what I could do and _yet_ when he looked at me all he saw was a _boy_ who promised to be a good brother to his daughter! Dad looked at Raven and he saw _beauty_ , he saw a little princess, and he looked at the Mansion and he saw _home_ … But then the Markos, _they_ looked at this and they never saw that, never saw home or family or love, all they ever thought about was how _fucking rich_ they’d become, they looked at Mother and they saw someone who was too drunk to care, too drunk to think! I was ten, Erik, and I was forced to look at them and look happy while they took _everything_ that should have been _Father’s_ if not for me, and they _sullied_ it with their _sick_ minds, their greed and those _disgusting_ manners of theirs! Don’t you _dare_ try and tell me _you_ would have just walked out and forgotten about this, _don’t you dare, Erik_!”

 

And then Charles is crying, harsh, ragged breaths tearing into his lungs, and Erik feels tears rolling on his cheek, roles reversed from that time he showed Charles what happened to him and he ended up a sobbing mess on his own sofa with Charles, dear, tear-faced Charles, held his head in his lap and ran feathery fingers in his hair, whispering soothing words until Erik’s tears were spent and he fell asleep.

But Charles is thousands of miles away from Erik’s lap, and all he can do is repeat comfort again and again, in the language that once meant safe and sound and loved to him, and he whispers frantically in the phone: _alles ist gut, alles ist gut, shhh, alles ist gut, Charles_ , and maybe it’s the words, maybe it’s the language, or maybe it’s Erik’s quiet but no less fierce and heartfelt will to protect Charles, but the telepath slowly calms down, until he sighs deeply, three times, and starts talking again, voice almost blank with exhaustion.

 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so harsh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Charles never technically lies, so he doesn’t say he didn’t mean what he just told Erik, because they both know he meant it just as much as Erik meant it when he called Charles an arrogant man who didn’t know what it was to lose everything precious to them. Charles _knows_ Erik knows what it is to be willing to suffer for someone, to feel proprietary over objects of great sentimental values, just as much as Erik _knows_ Charles is very much aware of things like loss and hiding, and they both _know_ they’re not alone, but just because they _know_ doesn’t mean they _feel_ , at least not _all_ the time, and sometimes the pain is so great they can’t help to want others to feel it as well, no matter how much they love them.

 

In these moments, Erik thinks he can understand what Charles means when he says Mutants and Humans aren’t that different.

 

“It has something to do with this, doesn’t it? Your trip.”

“Yes,” Charles says, and Erik is relieved that his voice is starting to sound alive again.

“Is that why you didn’t take anyone along?”

“No,” Charles says, firm. “The Parade has everything to do with this, and I still took Alex along.”

“Ah, yes, Alex. I guess this is the reason you’re so close, right?”

“He guessed. I never needed to tell him anything, he just knew… I’m not the first person he meets with this kind of past. It’s just –do you know what he said, when he found out?”

“’M listening.”

“He didn’t say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘it’s in the past’… he didn’t even ask if he was in prison or anything. He just said that if he came back, I’d just have to call him and he’d burn the body for me. I know shouldn’t be reassured by someone basically offering murder and _meaning it_ , at least not by normal standards….”

“But Normal never applied to us.”

 

And though Charles isn’t fond of this kind of statements, he knows better than to argue a case he doesn’t really support in the first place.

 

 **oooooooooooo**

 

Charles comes back from Africa two weeks later, after his trip was delayed for… what is it he said? Ah, yes, ‘administrative purposes’. Erik strongly suspects the administrative purposes in question involve a certain baby burbling in a certain hut in a certain village, but refrains from talking about it to Hank or Alex or even Sean. Moira asked him about the trip, too, but Erik still doesn’t know exactly what she knows about Charles’ past, so he didn’t answer.

It takes two days before Erik manages to go to Charles’, and when he does, he is greeted by a piercing wail, and then Charles is opening the door with a screaming, black skinned and white haired baby in his arms. Charles beams and urges Erik inside with his mind, so as not to add to the noise, before he goes back to the table in the main room where a bottle is waiting for him. Erik follows him to the couch where he settles down with the baby, thankfully shushed down by the providential appearance of the bottle in its mouth.

 

 _I’m guessing you’re not just babysitting, right?_ Erik asks, more to open the conversation than as a real question.

 _Ororo’s parents are both dead, and her grandfather is ninety. The only option he had was his nephew, some kind of opulent banker who’s definitely not a friend of our cause… what else could I do?_

 _I would say let her go to her relative, but I have a feeling it would be cruel._

 _More than you can imagine, my friend. I grew up like that, in a rich house where almost nobody cared about me. I don’t want her to have the same kind of memories I do._

 _So you decided to become a single father._

 

“Oh, Erik,” Charles chuckles aloud as he readjusts Ororo on his shoulder so she can burp properly, “I’ve been a single father since I was ten. Don’t, worry, I know how to handle this.”

 

And it’s true, when he goes to change Ororo’s diaper, his hands are sure, his movements more like someone relearning bicycle riding after a long period than those of a new father. He looks at Ororo’s tiny nose and her erratic tuft of cottony hair, and Erik can perfectly picture him, small boy in outdated short pants and short-sleeved shirt watching the Nanny changing Raven’s nappies in order to learn how to do it for himself.

 

“Actually,” Charles corrects, “I learned to do that with Dad. He liked to include me in Raven’s life. Said it was important we behaved like a family, from time to time.”

 

Ororo starts whining as he says that, squirming under his hands even as he takes her in his arms, fingers sprayed under her neck to support her head, and kisses her belly. Her little fist brush his hair, fingers grabbing awkwardly at the air as she breaks in a full blown wail and Charles starts singing, not exactly off-key but not exactly skilled singer either, more practiced, like someone who has sung the same song for years on end –and maybe, just maybe he did.

Erik listens to the song – _Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot, prêtes-moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot_ \- and doesn’t understand the words, but he sees a night in his mind, dark and star-filled, a full moon washing a window in silver lights while a thin boy in ample white costume with black pompoms in lieu of buttons writes with a feather, and he guesses this is what Charles is singing about.

 

 _I thought you’d use your mind to calm her down._

 _She’s barely three weeks, there’s no mind to soothe here. It’s too primal, too focused on hunger, thirst and dirty nappies, I can’t quite grasp how to soothe her yet… not without shaping her, and I don’t want to do that. Not like that. Not yet._

 

Erik is surprised for only a moment before he remembers: Charles has known Raven since her infancy, since she was little more than a block of clay waiting to be shaped by the events of her life, of course he would know about the inner working of a baby’s mind. What really unsettles Erik, though, is Charles last comment. He wants to ask about it, wants to know, but then Ororo has closed her eyes and Charles disappears in Raven’s room, where Ororo’s crib is apparently placed during the day.

 

“I used to constantly be in Raven’s mind,” Charles explains quietly when he comes back. “She was my home ground, if you will. Keeping inside her head was the only way if found not to get lost in others, at first. Then she grew up used to it, and we didn’t see any harm in it, so I stayed… now that I think about it with more maturity, I’m not sure it was what was best for her.”

“How did you go from that to not being allowed in her head at all?” Erik asks, because it _is_ intriguing, even if he has an idea or two about what may have caused the change.

“I went out when I was eighteen. I was… I didn’t like who I was at the time. I still don’t like who I was at the time, for that matter. But getting a mind wrenched from yours it’s… painful. Not physically but… I don’t know how to explain, there’s no good word for that, but it feels… empty. Perhaps even more so for her, because she wasn’t able to look at other minds to fill part of the gaps.” Charles shrugs, sadly. “She was furious I decided to go… I think she thought I resented her for trying to help me. She was so resentful, she forbade me to go in her head ever again.”

“Did she change her mind?”

“Of course not. She’s my sister. We have an agreement that I keep close to her though. Not _in_ her head exactly, but I keep her within hearing distance, if you will. I don’t really feel comfortable with leaving her alone in a crowd.”

“I wonder why,” Erik says, ironic. They both have their reasons to prefer the quiet calm of Charles or his’ residence to the crowded halls of the school or even just the streets. Erik is frankly impressed at Charles and himself for not developing some sort of agoraphobia.

 

Charles chuckles at the thought, then closes his eyes and rests his head against Erik’s shoulder, hands limply poised on his hips as he drinks Erik’s scent. It is not what would typically considered a masculine gesture, but Erik knows Charles is about as distrustful as he is, different though his way of dealing with it is -Charles, Erik understood long ago, trusts _no one_ completely, not even Raven, because Raven is his charge and a charge isn’t supposed to bear their guardian’s weaknesses, and not even Moira, because Moira is in love with him and wonderfully un-insisting about it, but she can’t help acting on it sometimes, as discreet as it is- so Erik just wraps him in a hug and revels in the moment.

It’s not Love, not yet, not even if it very well could, but it is _Trust_ at last, trust in someone, _any_ one, any _thing_ other than their powers and the lengths they’re willing to go to in order to protect whatever they hold dear.

 

Erik leans down and kisses Charles brow, soft and reassuring like he remembers his mother doing when he was little, and then he nuzzles at Charles’ temple.

 

 _What?_

 _I want to show you something._

 _What?_

 _Everything._

 

Charles startles and takes a step backward, eyes wide in surprise, uncertainty and even, maybe, a bit of fear. Erik understands that, that’s exactly what he felt, a dozen days after the Parade, when Alex off-handedly commented on how weird it was to have Charles scan their mind and looked shell-shocked when Erik said Charles never scanned _his_. He remembers Alex’s stunned silence, then slow procession of the words, and then his face illuminated, just like Erik’s mother’s face used to shine when he told her about how he’d met a new friend despite his shyness –yes, Erik was shy, long before he became wary- and Erik _knew_ he was the first person Charles ever trusted without knowing what was inside their minds.

He was so overwhelmed – _stupefied, terrified, flattered, anguished-_ to discover this that he even went so far as to cancel a date with the excuse that he was feeling nauseous –that was the truth, at least, even though the reason behind it wasn’t as unknown as he said at the time.

 

Charles lets silence float for a long, long moment, most likely to give Erik room to retract, but Erik finds, to his own delighted surprise, that he doesn’t want to, so soon, Charles enters his head. It’s not exactly gentle or slow, more like grapping at something to make sure it won’t disappear from between your fingers, erratic and a little desperate, but not hurtful either, fast but careful not to cause any damage, not to disrupt anything, and then in the midst of it all, there’s a hand in Erik’s hair, lips on his mouth, a chest against his and _want, want, want_ tugging at his heart, at his limbs, at his mind.

He follows Charles to the couch, his own hands gripping hard at his waist where they leave red and white marks on the soft skin, right forefinger tracing the ancient path of a belt buckle, and lets himself tumble atop Charles when the telepath’s knees hit the armrest, kisses his way down to Charles’ zipper, slowly unbuttoning his shirt as he does so, reveling in the knowledge that this, _all this_ is utterly new to Charles and, to a certain extent, to him as well: for Charles, this is the first time ever, for Erik, it is the first time he knows he _can_ stop whenever he wants and yet doesn’t _want_ to.

Charles’ mind is twinned in his own, hungry and tender and relieved and satisfied and at ease and nervous, thousands of thoughts and sensation browsing through it like a cascade from which _want_ and _trust_ and _affection_ peak out like rocks and Erik finds in that instant that he doesn’t mind that, doesn’t mind getting lost in this mind because he _knows_ with all the fibers of his being that Charles will help him get out afterwards, and that’s all he asks for, really.

 

And when they lay together on the couch afterward, slick with sweat and naked and sated, Erik sighs deeply, giddily, with the bone-deep certitude that this is the most beautiful, _pure_ thing to ever happen to him, and doesn’t even think to cover them before he falls asleep on Charles’ chest, with one hand in his hair and the other one tangling their fingers together.

 

(Judging by the way Raven’s shriek wakes Ororo up in the most noisy and annoying fashion possible, he probably should have, though, but even if he’d wanted to, he never could have denied Charles the occasion to get the full measure of his trust.)


End file.
